Walking home one Saturday night recently through a certain part of Dublin - I won't say where - my wife and I passed a quaint old pub that we often mean to visit and never do, writes Frank McNally.
It was 12.48am, sadly, and the pub was closed. Or so we assumed, until the strains of some lively traditional music escaped from within.
Feeling a bit like Goldilocks at the house of the three bears, we tried the front door and -lo! - it opened. Whereupon we stepped inside and, ignoring the simultaneous glances of everyone in the pub, tried to make ourselves invisible. This was not easy, since the premises is so small that if you swung a cat in it you would knock at least four customers off their stools.
It was a charming scene, even so. A small group of instrumentalists performed skilfully and in respectful silence to a crowd enjoying the music and the cosiness. I sensed that we had introduced a slight draught, literally and metaphorically. But the door was now closed behind us, the room temperature was returning to normal, and as we joined in the applause for the musicians, it must have been clear we meant no harm.
Certain questions of etiquette remained, however. It was obvious that the barman was still pulling pints. But should we order a drink? We didn't want one, in fact. We only wanted to enjoy the atmosphere for a few minutes. But would that appear mean? Or, worse, would be look like tourists?
I was still wrestling with the issue when I found myself at the sharp end of a triangular exchange of glances between the barman and a woman who was sitting among the customers, but exuding authority. She glanced at him, nodding at me. I glanced at both of them. He glanced back.
It was clear that at least two of these glances were meaningful. I just had no idea what they meant, until the barman emerged from behind the counter with a creamy pint of stout. In one continuous movement, he placed the freshly poured pint in front of a customer, then turned to me and asked: "Can I help you?" His tone was brusque. But this is not always a clue to a Dublin barman's state of mind. Dublin barmen are like New York taxi drivers. You don't expect politeness. You're just grateful to get their attention.
So, misinterpreting his question as an invitation to order, I obliged. At which point, with inverse proportions of irony (very little) and indignation (a lot), the barman informed me that the pub was closed. "It's ten to one," he added huffily, as if offended that I had formed the impression he was still serving.
There was nothing to do in the circumstances except withdraw, as gracefully as possible. Ideally, I should have done so after performing my own triangle of glances - at the pint, the barman, and the woman proprietor - with a smile that conveyed exactly equal portions of forgiveness and sarcasm.
But you always think of the witty responses when it's too late. Instead, I instinctively accepted all responsibility for the misunderstanding, nodding an apology and making for the door. We left the pub feeling even more awkward than when we came in.
The Irish licensing laws - as amended by everyday practice - are a very complex subject. If anything, the reforms of recent years have only made them more so. The scene I intruded upon in that pub may have been what we used to call a "lock-in". And if the door had indeed been locked, I would have been spared my embarrassment.
But I suspect the reason it wasn't locked is the smoking ban, which is so well observed in Ireland that people will interrupt illegal drinking sessions to have their cigarettes outside, in accordance with the law.
Then again, it may not have been a full-blown lock-in. Weekend closing is 12.30am, so with a liberal interpretation of drinking-up time, the pint I saw served was almost legal. It would have been less legal for me, of course, because as a new arrival on the premises, I occupied a different position in the space-time continuum from those who were already there. If pub closing is a set of traffic lights, I was on red. They were on orange (though not in the beverage sense, of course).
I'm not sure where the law stands on the playing of music during drink-up time. It hardly helps clear the house. And yet, I would argue that as with food, a premises that serves good-quality traditional music (no piano-accordeons, a maximum of one bodhran player, etc) should be entitled to an extension.
Then again, the existing reforms have already diminished the opportunities to drink illegally, an activity that is still highly prized in Ireland. There remains a furtive thrill to be had from being in a pub after hours. It's just annoying that you have to stay up so late now to experience it. Further postponements might be unacceptable.
You could write a thesis about the contrast between the respect for the smoking ban here and the lack of respect for legislation relating to drink. My own theory is that the licensing laws are seen as a left-over from British rule. By subverting them, you are retrospectively standing up to imperialism. Whereas the smoking ban comes from the new confident Ireland, and was such a good idea anyway that the rest of Europe has since rushed to adopt it.
The after-hours drink is like an old rebel song, if you will. The smoking ban is Riverdance.